Ocean Deep

Chapter Two: Identity

Finding Sam with the two FBI agents that had been following him was disappointing. Michael had expected it, he knows how the game is played, but there'd been some part of him hoping that Sam and Lucy being willing to talk to him, to help him, hadn't been part of some larger plot to keep him in line and under surveillance.

Sam was mostly silent through his confrontation with them, waiting until they left to defend himself, "Mike, they got me hooked on the line here. They got my pension tied up."

They both knew it wasn't about the pension. That was a threat to show that they could take more from him. Michael had never gotten the full story on what happened in Colombia--whatever had gone down, the brass didn't want it getting out, and even his clearance hadn't been enough to access those files--but he knew it was bad enough that Sam had ended in front of a military tribunal and was nearly court-martialed. For Mers, that was as good as a death sentence, no matter their rank. Whatever deal he had made with the brass, there were even higher-ups who could pull enough strings to make it go away and put Sam right back on the chopping block.

And there were several people who'd be happy to see him back on it. Sam had enlisted back in '76, when Mers were still being placed in the NMMP, and he'd been one of the first to complete training when the laws and regulations changed to allow them into previously human only branches. Had Sam been human, he would have easily worked his way up the ranks probably would have left the Navy SEALs as a commander instead of an ensign.

"Sam." Michael got up and moved to the opposite side of the table, leaning back over to grab his coffee. It hadn't escaped his notice that Sam hadn't touched his drink. The red liquid was guaranteed to be alcohol--it was slightly amazing to him that Sam hadn't yet managed to dehydrate himself with the way he indulged in diuretics--and him not touching was a bigger sign of the guilt he was feeling than anything he could say.

"Look, they said it would be better for you, that you can do anything you want basically, as long as you stay where they can see you, and you don't 'cause any trouble." They both knew asking Michael not to get into trouble was as effective as asking the sun not to shine on Miami.

"Sam, don't sprinkle sugar on this bull and call it candy."

Sam ducked his head, suddenly finding the tabletop very interesting. "I'm sorry, Mike. I don't know what to say."

"If I couldn't handle my friends informing on me, I wouldn't be in the business. The way I see it, better a friend than someone I don't know."

Sam raised his head, and Michael leaned forward before continuing, "The way I see it, a friend would tell them just enough to make them happy, but keep them out of my business."

"Well, hell, yeah, Mike. Absolutely."

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Sam had been acting off ever since he agreed to help Michael track down the conmen who'd scammed his ma's neighbor. Him asking if he could do research on printing shops in the area at Michael's new loft could mean the feds were putting more pressure on him or could be something else.

Currently, Sam was lounging on his bed, laptop open, legs and pants off. The tail of his Hawaiian shirt was thankfully long enough to cover his bottom half. There wasn't much to see there in terms of nudity, but the way his body just ended was unsettling to the eye. He kept alternating between looking at the screen and Michael.

Michael licked the yogurt he was eating off the spoon. "What is it, Sam?"

"I, uh, was wondering if I could crash here a couple days."

Michael slowly removed the spoon from his mouth. "What happened to your Olympic tank?"

"About that, seems the feds were askin' questions about me and the management thinks I'm the one under investigation." He paused. "They kicked me out, Mike."